THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 

James  J.  McBride 

PRESENTED  BY 

Margaret  McBride 


L 


\ 


.    »     ; 
f 


THE    IRON    GATE, 


AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


BY 

OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES. 


BOSTON: 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY. 
HtoersUie  Press, 

1880. 


COPYRIGHT,  1880, 
BY  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY. 

All  rights  reserved. 


RIVERSIDE,  CAMBRIDGE: 

STEREOTYPED   AND  PRINTED   BY 

H.  0.  HOC6BTON  AND  COMPANY. 


PS 

1959 

171 


CONTENTS. 


MM 

THE  IRON  GATE 5 

VESTIGIA  QUINQUE  KETRORSUM 10 

MY  AVIARY \7 

ON  THE  THRESHOLD 22 

To  GEORGE  PEABODY 24 

AT  THE  PAPYRUS  CLUB 25 

FOR  WHITTIER'S  SEVENTIETH  BIRTHDAY        .        .        .        .27 

Two  SONNETS  :  HARVARD 3\ 

THE  LAST  SURVIVOR 33 

THE  AECHBISHOP  AND  GIL  BLAS 39 

THE  SHADOWS 44 

THE  COMING  ERA 47 

IN  RESPONSE 50 

FOR  THE  MOORE  CENTENNIAL  CELEBRATION        ...  53 

To  JAMES  FREEMAN  CLARKE 57 

WELCOME  TO  THE  CHICAGO  COMMERCIAL  CLUB  ...  60 
AMERICAN  ACADEMY  CENTENNIAL  CELEBRATION    .        .        .62 

THE  SCHOOL-BOY 66 

THE  SILENT  MELODY                                                           .        .  80 


THE  IRON  GATE, 

AND  OTHER  POEMS. 
THE  IRON  GATE. 

READ  AT  THE  BREAKFAST  GIVEN  IK  HONOR  OF  DR.  HOLME^S 
SEVENTIETH  BIRTHDAY  BT  THE  PUBLISHERS  OF  THE  ATLAN 
TIC  MONTHLY,  BOSTON,  DECEMBER  3,  1879. 

WHEKE  is  this  patriarch  you  are  kindly  greeting  ? 

Not  unfamiliar  to  my  ear  his  name, 
Nor  yet  unknown  to  many  a  joyous  meeting 

In  days  long  vanished,  —  is  he  still  the  same, 

Or  changed  by  years,  forgotten  and  forgetting, 
Dull-eared,     dim-sighted,     slow     of    speech    and 
thought, 

Still  o'er  the  sad,  degenerate  present  fretting, 
Where  all  goes  wrong,  and  nothing  as  it  ought  ? 

Old  age,  the  graybeard  !  Well,  indeed,  I  know 
him,  — 

Shrunk,  tottering,  bent,  of  aches  and  ills  the  prey ; 
In  sermon,  story,  fable,  picture,  poem, 

Oft  have  I  met  him  from  my  earliest  day  : 


6  THE  IRON   GATE. 

In  my  old  ^Esop,  toiling  with  his  bundle,  — 
His  load  of  sticks,  —  politely  asking  Death, 

Who  comes   when    called  for,  —  would   he   lug   or 

trundle 
His  fagot  for  him  ?  —  he  was  scant  of  breath. 

And  sad  "  Ecclesiastes,  or  the  Preacher,"  — 
Has  he  not  stamped  the  image  on  my  soul, 

In  that  last  chapter,  where  the  worn-out  Teacher 
Sighs  o'er  the  loosened  cord,  the  broken  bowl  ? 

Yes,  long,  indeed,  I  've  known  him  at  a  distance, 
And  now  my  lifted  door-latch  shows  him  here  ; 

I  take  his  shrivelled  hand  without  resistance, 
And  find  him  smiling  as  his  step  draws  near. 

What  though  of  gilded  baubles  he  bereaves  us, 
Dear  to  the  heart  of  youth,  to  manhood's  prime  ; 

Think  of  the  calm  he  brings,  the  wealth  he  leaves  us, 
The  hoarded  spoils,  the  legacies  of  time  ! 

Altars  once  flaming,  still  with  incense  fragrant, 
Passion's  uneasy  nurslings  rocked  asleep, 

Hope's  anchor  faster,  wild  desire  less  vagrant, 
Life's  flow  less  noisy,  but  the  stream  how  deep  ! 

Still  as  the  silver  cord  gets  worn  and  slender, 

Its  lightened  task-work  tugs  with  lessening  strain, 


THE   IRON   GATE.  7 

Hands  get  more  helpful,  voices,  grown  more  tender, 
Soothe  with  their  softened  tones  the  slumberous 
brain. 

Youth    longs    and    manhood   strives,    but    age    re 
members, 

Sits  by  the  raked-up  ashes  of  the  past, 
Spreads  its  thin  hands  above  the  whitening  embers 

That  warm  its  creeping  life-blood  till  the  last. 

Dear  to  its  heart  is  every  loving  token 

That  comes  unbidden  ere  its  pulse  grows  cold, 

Ere  the  last  lingering  ties  of  life  are  broken, 
Its  labors  ended  and  its  story  told. 

Ah,  while  around  us  rosy  youth  rejoices, 

For  us  the  sorrow-laden  breezes  sigh, 
And  through  the  chorus  of  its  jocund  voices 

Throbs  the  sharp  note  of  misery's  hopeless  cry. 

As  on  the  gauzy  wings  of  fancy  flying 

From  some  far  orb  I  track  our  watery  sphere, 

Home  of  the  struggling,  suffering,  doubting,  dying, 
The  silvered  globule  seems  a  glistening  tear. 

But  Nature  lends  her  mirror  of  illusion 

To  win   from   saddening  scenes  our  age-dimmed 

eyes, 


8  THE  IRON   GATE. 

And  misty  day-dreams  blend  in  sweet  confusion 
The  wintry  landscape  and  the  summer  skies. 

So  when  the  iron  portal  shuts  behind  us, 
And  life  forgets  us  in  its  noise  and  whirl, 

Visions  that  shunned  the  glaring  noonday  find  us, 
And  glimmering  starlight  shows  the  gates  of  pearl. 

—  I  come  not  here  your  morning  hour  to  sadden, 
A  limping  pilgrim,  leaning  on  his  staff,  — 

I,  who  have  never  deemed  it  sin  to  gladden 
This  vale  of  sorrows  with  a  wholesome  laugh. 

If  word  of  mine  another's  gloom  has  brightened, 
Through  my  dumb  lips  the  heaven-sent  message 
came ; 

If  hand  of  mine  another's  task  has  lightened, 
It  felt  the  guidance  that  it  dares  not  claim. 

But,  O  my  gentle  sisters,  O  my  brothers, 

These  thick-sown  snow-flakes  hint  of  toil's  release  ; 

These  feebler  pulses  bid  me  leave  to  others 

The  tasks  once  welcome  ;  evening  asks  for  peace. 

Time  claims  his  tribute ;  silence  now  is  golden  ; 

Let  me  not  vex  the  too  long  suffering  lyre  ; 
Though  to  your  love  untiring  still  beholden, 

The  curfew  tells  me  —  cover  up  the  fire. 


THE   IRON  GATE.  9 

And  now  with  grateful  smile  and  accents  cheerful, 

And  warmer  heart  than  look  or  word  can  tell, 
In   simplest    phrase  —  these    traitorous    eyes    are 

tearful  — 

Thanks,  Brothers,  Sisters  —  Children  —  and  fare 
well  I 


VESTIGIA  QUINQUE  RETRORSUM. 

AN   ACADEMIC   POEM.1 
1829-1879. 

WHILE  fond,  sad  memories  all  around  us  throng 

Silence  were  sweeter  than  the  sweetest  song ; 

Yet  when  the  leaves  are  green  and  heaven  is  blue, 

The  choral  tribute  of  the  grove  is  due, 

And  when  the  lengthening  nights  have  chilled  the 

skies, 

We  fain  would  hear  the  song-bird  ere  he  flies, 
And  greet  with  kindly  welcome,  even  as  now, 
The  lonely  minstrel  on  his  leafless  bough. 

This  is  our  golden  year,  —  its  golden  day  ; 
Its  bridal  memories  soon  must  pass  away, 
Soon  shall  its  dying  music  cease  to  ring 
And  every  year  must  loose  some  silver  string, 
Till  the  last  trembling  chords  no  longer  thrill,  — 
Hands  all  at  rest  and  hearts  forever  still. 

1  Read  at  the  Commencement  Dinner  of  the  Alunmi  of  Harvard 
University,  June  25,  1879. 


VESTIGIA  QUINQUE  RETRORSUM.  11 

A  few  gray  heads  have  joined  the  forming  line  ; 
We  hear  our  summons,  —  "  Class  of  'twenty-nine  !  " 
Close  on  the  foremost,  and,  Alas,  how  few  ! 
Are  these  "  The  Boys  "  our  dear  old  Mother  knew  ? 
Sixty    brave    swimmers.        Twenty    —    something 

more  — 
Have   passed    the   stream   and   reached   this   frosty 

shore ! 

How  near  the  banks  these  fifty  years  divide 
When  memory  crosses  with  a  single  stride  ! 
'T  is  the  first  year  of  stern  "  Old  Hickory  "  's  rule 
When  our  good  Mother  lets  us  out  of  school, 
Half  glad,  half  sorrowing,  it  must  be  confessed, 
To  leave  her  quiet  lap,  her  bounteous  breast, 
Armed  with  our  dainty,  ribbon-tied  degrees, 
Pleased  and  yet  pensive,  exiles  and  A.  B.'s. 

Look  back,  O  comrades,  with  your  faded  eyes, 
And  see  the  phantoms  as  I  bid  them  rise. 
Whose  smile  is  that?     Its  pattern  Nature  gave, 
A  sunbeam  dancing  in  a  dimpled  wave  ; 
KIKKLAND  alone  such  grace  from  Heaven  could  win, 
His  features  radiant  as  the  soul  within  ; 
That  smile  would  let  him  through  Saint  Peter's  gate 
While  sad-eyed  martyrs  had  to  stand  and  wait. 
Here  flits  mercurial  Farrar ;  'standing  there, 
See  mild,  benignant,  cautious,  learned  Ware, 


12  VESTIGIA  QUINQUE  EETRORSUM. 

And  sturdy,  patient,  faithful,  honest  Hedge, 
Whose  grinding  logic  gave  our  wits  their  edge  ; 
Ticlcnor,  with  honeyed  voice  and  courtly  grace ; 
And  Willard  larynxed  like  a  double  bass ; 
And  Channing  with  his  bland,  superior  look, 
Cool  as  a  moonbeam  on  a  frozen  brook, 
While  the  pale  student,  shivering  in  his  shoes, 
Sees  from  his  theme  the  turgid  rhetoric  ooze  ; 
And  the  born  soldier,  fate  decreed  to  wreak 
His  martial  manhood  on  a  class  in  Greek, 
PopTcin  !     How  that  explosive  name  recalls 
The  grand  old  Busby  of  our  ancient  halls  ! 
Such  faces  looked  from  Skippon's  grim  platoons, 
Such  figures  rode  with  Ireton's  stout  dragoons  ; 
He  gave  his  strength  to  learning's  gentle  charms, 
But  every  accent  sounded  "  Shoulder  arms  !  " 

Names,  —  empty  names !     Save  only  here  and  there 
Some  white-haired  listener,  dozing  in  his  chair, 
Starts  at  the  sound  he  often  used  to  hear, 
And  upward  slants  his  Sunday-sermon  ear. 

And  we  —  our  blooming  manhood  we  regain ; 
Smiling  we  join  the  long  Commencement  train, 
One  point  first  battled  in  discussion  hot,  — 
Shall  we  wear  gowns  ?  and  settled:    We  will  not. 
How  strange  the  scene,  —  that  noisy  boy-debate 
Where  embryo-speakers  learn  to  rule  the  State  ! 


VESTIGIA   QUINQUE   RETRORSUM.  13 

This  broad-browed  youth,1  sedate  and.  sober-eyed, 
Shall  wear  the  ermined  robe  at  Taney's  side ; 
And  he,  the  stripling,2  smooth  of  face  and  slight, 
Whose  slender  form  scarce  intercepts  the  light, 
Shall  rule  the  Bench  where  Parsons  gave  the  law, 
And  sphynx-like  sat  uncouth,  majestic  Shaw ! 
Ah,  many  a  star  has  shed  its  fatal  ray 
On  names  we  loved —  our  brothers  —  where  are  they  ? 
Nor  these  alone  ;  our  hearts  in  silence  claim 
Names  not  less  dear,  unsyllabled  by  fame. 

How  brief  the  space  !  and  yet  it  sweeps  us  back 
Far,  far  along  our  new-born  history's  track ! 
Five  strides  like  this  ;  —  the  Sachem  rules  the  land; 
The  Indian  wigwams  cluster  where  we  stand. 

The  second.  —  Lo  !  a  scene  of  deadly  strife  — 
A  nation  struggling  into  infant  life ; 
Not  yet  the  fatal  game  at  Yorktown  won 
Where  falling  Empire  fired  its  sunset  gun. 
LANGDON  sits  restless  in  the  ancient  chair,  — 
Harvard's   grave    Head,  —  these   echoes    heard   his 

prayer 

When  from  yon  mansion,  dear  to  memory  still, 
The  banded  yeomen  marched  for  Bunker's  hill. 
Count  on  the  grave  triennial's  thick-starred  roll 
What  names  were  numbered  on  the  lengthening 

scroll  — 

1  Benjamin  Robbing  Curtis.  2  George  Tyler  Bigelow. 


14  VESTIGIA   QUINQUE  RETRORSUM. 

Not  unfamiliar  in  our  ears  they  ring  — 
Winthrop,  Hale,  Eliot,  Everett,  Dexter,  Tyng. 

Another  stride.     Once  more  at  'twenty-nine,  — 
GOD  SAVE  KING  GEORGE,  the  Second  of  his  line  ! 
And  is  Sir  Isaac  living  ?     Nay,  not  so,  — 
He  followed  Flamsteed  two  short  years  ago, — 
And  what  about  the  little  hump-backed  man 
Who    pleased    the    bygone    days    of    good    Queen 

Anne  ? 

What,  Pope  ?  another  book  he  's  just  put  out  — 
"  The  Dunciad  "  —  witty,  but  profane,  no  doubt. 
Where  's  Cotton  Mather  ?     he  was  always  here.  — 
And  so  he  would  be,  but  he  died  last  year. 
Who  is  this  preacher  our  Northampton  claims, 
Whose  rhetoric  blazes  with  sulphureous  flames 
And  torches  stolen  from  Tartarean  mines  ? 
Edwards,  the  salamander  of  divines. 
A  deep,  strong  nature,  pure  and  undefiled ; 
Faith,  firm  as  his  who  stabbed  his  sleeping  child  ; 
Alas  for  him  who  blindly  strays  apart 
And  seeking  God  has  lost  his  human  heart ! 
Fall  where  they  might  no  flying  cinders  caught 
These   sober  halls   where  WADSWORTH  ruled   and 

taught. 

One  footstep  more ;  the  fourth  receding  stride 
Leaves  the  round  century  on  the  nearer  side. 


VESTIGIA  QUMQUE  RETRORSUM.  15 

GOD  SAVE  KING  CHARLES  !     God  knows  that  pleas 
ant  knave 

His  grace  will  find  it  hard  enough  to  save. 
Ten  years  and  more,  and  now  the  Plague,  the  Fire, 
Talk  of  all  tongues,  at  last  begin  to  tire  ; 
One  fear  prevails,  all  othqr  frights  forgot,  — 
White   lips   are    whispering,  —  hark  !      The  popish 

Plot! 

Happy  New  England,  from  such  troubles  free 
In  health  and  peace  beyond  the  stormy  sea  ! 
No  Romish  daggers  threat  her  children's  throats, 
No  gibbering  nightmare  mutters  "  Titus  Gates  ;  " 
Philip  is  slain,  the  Quaker  graves  are  green, 
Not  yet  the  witch  has  entered  on  the  scene  ; 
Happy  our  Harvard  ;  pleased  her  graduates  four ; 
URIAN  OAKES  the  name  their  parchments  bore. 

Two  centuries  past,  our  hurried  feet  arrive 
At  the  last  footprint  of  the  scanty  five ; 
Take  the  fifth  stride ;  our  wandering  eyes  explore 
A  tangled  forest  on  a  trackless  shore  ; 
Here,  where  we  stand,  the  savage  sorcerer  howls, 
The  wild  cat  snarls,  the  stealthy  gray  wolf  prowls, 
The  slouching  bear,  perchance  the  trampling  moose 
Starts    the   brown    squaw  and  scares  her   red  pap- 

poose ; 

At  every  step  the  lurking  foe  is  near  ; 
His  Demons  reign ;  God  has  no  temple  here  ! 


16  VESTIGIA   QUINQUE   EETRORSUM. 

Lift  up  your  eyes  !  behold  these  pictured  walls  ; 
Look  where  the  flood  of  western  glory  falls 
Through  the  great  sunflower  disk  of  blazing  panes 
In  ruby,  saffron,  azure,  emerald  stains ; 
With  reverent  step  the  marble  pavement  tread 
Where  our  proud  Mother's  martyr-roll  is  read ; 
See  the  great  halls  that  cluster,  gathering  round 
This  lofty  shrine  with  holiest  memories  crowned ; 
See  the  fair  Matron  in  her  summer  bower ; 
Fresh  as  a  rose  in  bright  perennial  flower  ; 
Read  on  her  standard,  always  in  the  van, 
"  TRUTH,"  —  the   one  word  that   makes  a  slave  a 

man; 

Think  whose  the  hands  that  fed  her  altar-fires, 
Then  count  the  debt  we  owe  our  scholar-sires  ! 

Brothers,  farewell !  the  fast  declining  ray 
Fades  to  the  twilight  of  our  golden  day ; 
Some  lesson  yet  our  wearied  brains  may  learn, 
Some  leaves,  perhaps,  in  life's  thin  volume  turn. 
How  few  they  seem  as  in  our  waning  age 
We  count  them  backwards  to  the  title-page ! 
Oh  let  us  trust  with  holy  men  of  old 
Not  all  the  story  here  begun  is  told  ; 
So  the  tired  spirit,  waiting  to  be  freed, 
On  life's  last  leaf  with  tranquil  eye  shall  read 
By  the  pale  glimmer  of  the  torch  reversed, 
Not  Finis,  but  The  End  of  Volume  First ! 


MY  AVIARY. 

TBLROUGH  my  north  window,  in  the  wintry  weath 
er,— 

My  airy  oriel  on  the  river  shore,  — 
I  watch  the  sea-fowl  as  they  flock  together 

Where  late  the  boatman  flashed  his  dripping  oar. 

The  gull,  high  floating,  like  a  sloop  unladen, 
Lets  the  loose  water  waft  him  as  it  will ; 

The  duck,  round-breasted  as  a  rustic  maiden, 
Paddles  and  plunges,  busy,  busy  still. 

I  see  the  solemn  gulls  in  council  sitting 

On  some  broad  ice-floe,  pondering  long  and  late, 

While  overhead  the  home-bound  ducks  are  flitting, 
And  leave  the  tardy  conclave  in  debate, 

Those  weighty   questions    in   their   breasts   revolv 
ing 

Whose  deeper  meaning  science  never  learns, 
Till  at  some  reverend  elder's  look  dissolving, 

The  speechless  senate  silently  adjourns. 
2 


18  MY  AVIARY. 

But  when  along  the  waves  the  shrill  north-easter 
Shrieks    through   the    laboring   coaster's   shrouds 
"  Beware !  " 

The  pale  bird,  kindling  like  a  Christmas  feaster 
When  some  wild  chorus  shakes  the  vinous  air, 

Flaps  from  the  leaden  wave  in  fierce  rejoicing, 

Feels   heaven's  dumb   lightning   thrill   his  torpid 
nerves, 

Now  on  the  blast  his  whistling  plumage  poising, 
Now  wheeling,  whirling  in  fantastic  curves. 

Such  is  our  gull ;  a  gentleman  of  leisure, 

Less  fleshed   than    feathered ;  bagged  you  '11  find 
him  such  ; 

His  virtue  silence  ;  his  employment  pleasure  ; 
Not  bad  to  look  at,  and  not  good  for  much. 

What  of  our  duck  ?   He  has  some  high-bred  cousins,  — 
His  Grace  the  Canvas-back,  My  Lord  the  Brant,  — 

Anas  and  Anser,  —  both  served  up  by  dozens, 
At  Boston's  Rocher,  half-way  to  Nahant. 

As  for  himself,  he  seems  alert  and  thriving,  — 

Grubs  up  a  living  somehow  —  what,  who  knows  ? 
Crabs  ?  mussels  ?  weeds  ? —  Look  quick  !  there 's  one 

just  diving  ! 

Flop  !  Splash  !  his  white  breast  glistens  —  down 
he  goes  I 


MY  AVIARY.  19 

And  while  he  's  under  —  just  about  a  minute  — 

I  take  advantage  of  the  fact  to  say 
His  fishy  carcase  has  no  virtue  in  it 

The  gunning  idiot's  worthless  hire  to  pay. 

He  knows  you  !  "  sportsmen  "  from  suburban  alleys, 
Stretched  under  seaweed  in  the  treacherous  punt ; 

Knows  every  lazy,  shiftless  lout  that  sallies 

Forth  to  waste  powder  —  as  Tie  says,  to  "  hunt." 

I  watch  you  with  a  patient  satisfaction, 

Well  pleased  to  discount  your  predestined  luck ; 

The  float  that  figures  in  your  sly  transaction 
Will  carry  back  a  goose,  but  not  a  duck. 

Shrewd  is  our  bird ;  not  easy  to  outwit  him  ! 

Sharp  is  the  outlook  of  those  pin-head  eyes ;  • 
Still,  he  is  mortal  and  a  shot  may  hit  him, 

One  cannot  always  miss  him  if  he  tries. 

Look !  there  's  a  young  one,  dreaming  not  of  danger  ; 

Sees  a  flat  log  come  floating  down  the  stream ; 
Stares  undismayed  upon  the  harmless  stranger  ; 

Ah  !  were  all  strangers  harmless  as  they  seem  ! 

Habet  !  a  leaden  shower  his  breast  has  shattered ; 

Vainly  he  flutters,  not  again  to  rise  ; 
His  soft  white  plumes  along  the  waves  are  scattered ; 

Helpless  the  wing  that  braved  the  tempest  lies. 


20  MY  AVIARY. 

He  sees  his  comrades  high  above  him  flying 
To  seek  their  nests  among  the  island  reeds ; 

Strong  is  their  flight ;  all  lonely  he  is  lying 
Washed  by  the  crimsoned  water  as  he  bleeds. 

0  Thou  who  carest  for  the  falling  sparrow, 
Canst  Thou  the  sinless  sufferer's  pang  forget  ? 

Or  is  Thy  dread  account-book's  page  so  narrow 
Its  one  long  column  scores  Thy  creatures'  debt  ? 

Poor  gentle  guest,  by  nature  kindly  cherished, 
A  world  grows  dark  with  thee  in  blinding  death  ; 

One  little  gasp  —  thy  universe  has  perished, 

Wrecked  by  the  idle  thief  who  stole  thy  breath  ! 

Is  this  the  whole  sad  story  of  creation, 

Lived  by  its  breathing  myriads  o'er  and  o'er,  — 

One  glimpse  of  day,  then  black  annihilation,  — 
A  sunlit  passage  to  a  sunless  shore  ? 

Give  back  our  faith,  ye  mystery-solving  lynxes  ! 

Robe  us  once  more  in  heaven-aspiring  creeds  ! 
Happier  was  dreaming  Egypt  with  her  sphynxes, 

The  stony  convent  with  its  cross  and  beads  ! 

How  often  gazing  where  a  bird  reposes, 

Rocked  on  the  wavelets,  drifting  with  the  tide, 

1  lose  myself  in  strange  metempsychosis 

And  float  a  sea-fowl  at  a  sea-fowl's  side, 


MY  AVIAEY.  21 

From  rain,  hail,  snow  in  feathery  mantle  muffled, 
Clear-eyed,  strong-limbed,  with  keenest  sense  to 
hear 

My  mate  soft  murmuring,  who,  with  plumes  unruffled, 
Where'er  I  wander  still  is  nestling  near ; 

The  great  blue  hollow  like  a  garment  o'er  me ; 

Space  all  unmeasured,  unrecorded  time  ; 
While  seen  with  inward  eye  moves  on  before  me 

Thought's  pictured  train  in  wordless  pantomime. 

—  A  voice  recalls  me.  —  From  my  window  turning 

I  find  myself  a  plumeless  biped  still ; 
No  beak,  no  claws,  no  sign  of  wings  discerning,  — 

In  fact  with  nothing  bird-like  but  my  quill. 


ON  THE    THRESHOLD. 

INTRODUCTION     TO     A     COLLECTION     OF  POEMS    BY 
DIFFERENT  AUTHORS. 

AN  usher  standing  at  the  door 

I  show  my  white  rosette  ; 
A  smile  of  welcome,  nothing  more, 

Will  pay  my  trifling  debt ; 
Why  should  I  bid  you  idly  wait 
Like  lovers  at  the  swinging  gate  ? 

Can  I  forget  the  wedding  guest  ? 

The  veteran  of  the  sea  ? 
In  vain  the  listener  smites  his  breast,  — 

"  There  was  a  ship  "  cries  he  ! 
Poor  fasting  victim,  stunned  and  pale 
He  needs  must  listen  to  the  tale. 

He  sees  the  gilded  throng  within, 

The  sparkling  goblets  gleam, 
The  music  and  the  merry  din 

Through  every  window  stream, 
But  there  he  shivers  in  the  cold 
Till  all  the  crazy  dream  is  told. 


ON  THE   THRESHOLD.  23 

Not  mine  the  graybeard's  glittering  eye 

That  held  his  captive  still 
To  hold  my  silent  prisoners  by 

And  let  me  have  my  will ; 
Nay,  /were  like  the  three-years'  child, 
To  think  you  could  be  so  beguiled  ! 

My  verse  is  but  the  curtain's  fold 

That  hides  the  painted  scene, 
The  mist  by  morning's  ray  unrolled 

That  veils  the  meadow's  green, 
The  cloud  that  needs  must  drift  away 
To  show  the  rose  of  opening  day. 

See,  from  the  tinkling  rill  you  hear 

In  hollowed  palm  I  bring 
These  scanty  drops,  but  ah,  how  near 

The  founts  that  heavenward  spring ! 
Thus,  open  wide  the  gates  are  thrown 
And  founts  and  flowers  are  all  your  own  ! 


TO   GEORGE  PEABODY. 

DANVERS,  1866. 

BANKRUPT  !  our  pockets  inside  out ! 

Empty  of  words  to  speak  his  praises  ! 
Worcester  and  Webster  up  the  spout ! 

Dead  broke  of  laudatory  phrases  ! 
Yet  why  with  flowery  speeches  tease, 

With  vain  superlatives  distress  him  ? 
Has  language  better  words  than  these  ? 

THE  FRIEND  OF  ALL  HIS  RACE,  GOD  BLESS  HIM  I 

A  simple  prayer  —  but  words  more  sweet 

By  human  lips  were  never  uttered, 
Since  Adam  left  the  country  seat 

Where  angel  wings  around  him  fluttered. 
The  old  look  on  with  tear-dimmed  eyes, 

The  children  cluster  to  caress  him, 
And  every  voice  unbidden  cries 
*     THE  FRIEND  OF  ALL  HIS  RACE,  GOD  BLESS  HIM  ! 


AT   THE   PAPYRUS   CLUB. 

A  LOVELY  show  for  eyes  to  see 

I  looked  upon  this  morning  — 
A  bright-hued,  feathered  company 

Of  nature's  own  adorning  ; 
But  ah !  those  minstrels  would  not  sing 

A  listening  ear  while  I  lent  — 
The  lark  sat  still  and  preened  his  wing  — 

The  nightingale  was  silent ; 
I  longed  for  what  they  gave  me  not  — 

Their  warblings  sweet  and  fluty, 
But  grateful  still  for  all  I  got 

I  thanked  them  for  their  beauty. 

A  fairer  vision  meets  my  view 

Of  Claras,  Margarets,  Marys, 
In  silken  robes  of  varied  hue, 

Like  bluebirds  and  canaries  — 
The  roses  blush,  the  jewels  gleam, 

The  silks  and  satins  glisten, 
The  black  eyes  flash,  the  blue  eyes  beam, 

We  look  —  and  then  we  listen : 


26  AT   THE  PAPYRUS   CLUB. 

Behold  the  flock  we  cage  to-night  — 

Was  ever  such  a  capture  ? 
To  see  them  is  a  pure  delight  — 

To  hear  them  —  ah !  what  rapture  ! 

Methinks  I  hear  Delilah's  laugh 

At  Samson  bound  in  fetters  ;  — 
"  We  captured !  "  shrieks  each  lovelier  half, 

"  Men  think  themselves  our  betters  ! 

We  push  the  bolt,  we  turn  the  key 
On  warriors,  poets,  sages, 

Too  happy,  all  of  them,  to  be 
Locked  in  our  golden  cages  !  " 

Beware  !  the  boy  with  bandaged  eyes 

Has  flung  away  his  blinder  ; 
He  's  lost  his  mother  —  so  he  cries  — 

And  here  he  knows  he  '11  find  her  : 
The  rogue !  't  is  but  a  new  device  — 

Look  out  for  flying  arrows 
Whene'er  the  birds  of  Paradise 

Are  perched  amid  the  sparrows  ! 


FOR  WHITTIER'S  SEVENTIETH  BIRTHDAY. 

DECEMBER  17,  1877. 

I  BELIEVE  that  the  copies  of  verses  I  've  spun, 
Like  Scheherazade's  tales,  are  a  thousand  and  one.  — 
You  remember  the  story,  —  those  mornings  in  bed,  — 
'T  was  the  turn  of  a  copper,  —  a  tale  or  a  head. 

A  doom  like  Scheherazade's  falls  upon  me 
In  a  mandate  as  stern  as  the  Sultan's  decree  : 
I  'm  a  florist  in  verse,  and  what  would  people  say 
If  I  came  to  a  banquet  without  my  bouquet  ? 

It  is  trying,  no  doubt,  when  the  company  knows 
Just  the  look  and  the  smell  of  each  lily  and  rose, 
The  green  of  each  leaf  in  the  sprigs  that  I  bring, 
And  the  shape  of  the  bunch  and  the  knot  of  the 
string. 

Yes,  —  "  the  style  is  the  man,"  and  the    nib  of  one's 

pen 
Makes  the  same  mark  at  twenty,  and   three-score 

and  ten ; 


28     FOR   WHITTIER'S   SEVENTIETH  BIRTHDAY. 

It  is  so  in  all  matters,  if  truth  may  be  told ; 

Let  one  look  at  the  cast  he  can  tell  you  the  mould. 

How  we  all  know  each  other  !  no  use  in  disguise  ; 
Through  the  holes  in  the  mask  comes  the  flash  of 

the  eyes ; 
We  can  tell  by  his  —  somewhat  —  each  one  of  our 

tribe, 
As  we  know  the  old  hat  which  we  cannot  describe. 

Though  in  Hebrew,  in   Sanscrit,  in    Choctaw  you 

write, 

Sweet  singer  who  gave  us  the  Voices  of  Night, 
Though  in  buskin  or  slipper  your  song  may  be  shod, 
Or  the  velvety  verse  that  Evangeline  trod, 

We  shall  say  "  You  can't  cheat  us,  —  we  know  it  is 

you," 

There  is  one  voice  like  that,  but  there  cannot  be  two, 
Maestro,  whose  chant  like  the  dulcimer  rings  : 
And  the  woods  will  be  hushed  while  the  nightingale 

sings. 

And  he,  so  serene,  so  majestic,  so  true, 
Whose  temple  hypsethral  the  planets  shine  through, 
Let  us  catch  but  five  words  from  that  mystical  pen, 
We  should  know  our  one  sage  from  all  children  of 
men. 


FOR  WHITTIER'S   SEVENTIETH  BIRTHDAY.      29 

And  be  whose  bright  image  no  distance  can  dim, 
Through  a  hundred  disguises  we  can't  mistake  him, 
Whose  play  is  all  earnest,  whose  wit  is  the  edge 
(With  a  beetle  behind)  of  a  sham-splitting  wedge. 

Do   you  know   whom   we   send   you,    Hidalgos    of 

Spain  ? 
Do  you  know  your  old  , friends  when  you  see  them 

again  ? 

Hosea  was  Sancho  !  you  Dons  of  Madrid, 
But  Sancho  that  wielded  the  lance  of  the  Cid  ! 

And  the  wood-thrush  of  Essex,  —  you  know  whom  I 

mean, 

Whose  song  echoes  round  us  while  he  sits  unseen, 
Whose  heart-throbs  of  verse  through  our  memories 

thrill 
Like  a  breath  from  the  wood,  like  a  breeze  from  the 

hill, 

So  fervid,  so  simple,  so  loving,  so  pure, 
We  hear  but  one  strain  and  our  verdict  is  sure,  — 
Thee  cannot  elude  us,  —  no  further  we  search,  — 
'T  is  Holy  George  Herbert  cut  loose  from  his  church ! 

We  think  it  the  voice  of  a  seraph  that  sings,  — 
Alas  !  we  remember  that  angels  have  wings,  — 
What  story  is  this  of  the  day  of  his  birth  ? 
Let  him  live  to  a  hundred !  we  want  him  on  earth  ! 


30      FOR  WHITTIER'S  SEVENTIETH  BIRTHDAY. 

One  life  has  been  paid  him  (in  gold)  by  the  sun  ; 
One  account  has  been  squared  and  another  begun ; 
But  he  never  will  die  if  he  lingers  below 
Till  we  've   paid  him  in  love  half  the  balance  we 
owe ! 


TWO  SONNETS:  HARVARD.1 
"  CHRISTO  ET  ECCLESLE."    1700. 
TO  GOD'S  ANOINTED  AND  HIS  CHOSEN  FLOCK  : 

So  ran  the  phrase  the  black-robed  conclave  chose 
To  guard  the  sacred  cloisters  that  arose 

Like  David's  altar  on  Moriah's  rock. 

Unshaken  still  those  ancient  arches  mock 
The  ram's-horn  summons  of  the  windy  foes 
Who  stand  like  Joshua's  army  while  it  blows 

And  wait  to  see  them  toppling  with  the  shock. 

Christ  and  the  Church.     Their  church,  whose  nar 
row  door 

Shut  out  the  many,  who  if  over  bold 
Like  hunted  wolves  were  driven  from  the  fold, 

Bruised  with  the  flails  those  godly  zealots  bore, 
Mindful  that  Israel's  altar  stood  of  old 

Where  echoed  once  Araunah's  threshing-floor. 

1  At  the  meeting  of  the  New  York  Harvard  Club,  February  21, 
1878. 


32  TWO   SONNETS:  HARVARD. 


1643.     "VERITAS."     1878. 

TRUTH  :  So  the  frontlet's  older  legend  ran, 
On  the  brief  record's  opening  page  displayed  ; 
Not  yet  those  clear-eyed  scholars  were  afraid 

Lest  the  fair  fruit  that  wrought  the  woe  of  man 

By  far  Euphrates,  —  where  our  sire  began 

His  search  for  truth,  and  seeking,  was  betrayed, — 
Might  work  new  treason  in  their  forest  shade, 

Doubling   the   curse   that   brought   life's   shortened 
span. 

Nurse  of  the  future,  daughter  of  the  past, 

That  stern  phylactery  best  becomes  thee  now : 
Lift  to  the  morning  star  thy  marble  brow  ! 

Cast  thy  brave  truth  on  every  warring  blast ! 
Stretch  thy  white  hand  to  that  forbidden  bough, 

And  let  thine  earliest  symbol  be  thy  last ! 


THE   LAST  SURVIVOR.1 

YES  !  the  vacant  chairs  tell  sadly  we  are  going,  going 

fast, 
And  the  thought  comes  strangely  o'er  me  who  will 

live  to  be  the  last  ? 
When  the  twentieth  century's-  sunbeams  climb  the 

far-off  eastern  hill 
With  his  ninety  winters  burdened  will  he  greet  the 

morning  still  ? 

Will  he  stand  with  Harvard's  nurslings  when  they 

hear  their  mother's  call 
And  the  old  and  young  are  gathered  in  the  many  al- 

coved  hall  ? 
Will  he  answer   to  the  summons   when  they  range 

themselves  in  line 
And  the  young  mustachioed  marshal  calls  out  "  Class 

of  29  "  ? 


Methinks  I  see  the  column  as  its  lengthened  ranks 
appear 

In  the  sunshine  of  the  morrow  of  the  nineteen  hun 
dredth  year ; 

1  Annual  meeting  of  the  Class  of  1829,  January  10,  1878. 
3 


34  THE  LAST   SURVIVOE. 

Through  the  yard  't  is  creeping,  winding,  by  the  walls 
of  dusky  red  — 

What  shape  is  that  which  totters  at  the  long  proces 
sion's  head  ? 

Who  knows  this  ancient  graduate  of  fourscore  years 

and  ten,  — 
What  place  he  held,  what  name  he  bore  among  the 

sons  of  men  ? 

So  speeds  the  curious  question ;  its  answer  travels  slow ; 
"  'T  is  the  last  of  sixty  classmates  of  seventy  years 

ago." 

His  figure  shows  but  dimly,  his  face  I  scarce  can  see,  — 
There 's  something  that  reminds  me,  —  it  looks  like 

—  is  it  he  ? 
He  ?   Who  ?    No  voice   may  whisper  what  wrinkled 

brow  shall  claim 
The  wreath  of  stars  that  circles  our  last  survivor's 

name. 

Will  he  be  some  veteran  minstrel,  left  to  pipe  in  fee 
ble  rhyme 

All  the  stones  and  the  glories  of  our  gay  and  golden 
time? 

Or  some  quiet,  voiceless  brother  in  whose  lonely  lov 
ing  breast 

Fond  memory  broods  in  silence,  like  a  dove  upon  her 
nest  ? 


THE  LAST   SURVIVOR.  35 

Will  it  be  some  old  Emeritus,  who  taught  so  long 

ago 
The  boys  that  heard  him  lecture  have  heads  as  white 

as  snow  ? 
Or  a  pious,  painful  preacher,  holding  forth  from  year 

to  year 
Till  his  colleague  got  a  colleague  whom  the  young 

folks  flocked  to  hear  ? 

Will  it  be  a  rich  old  merchant  in  a  square-tied  white 

cravat, 

Or  select-man  of  a  village  in  a  pre-historic  hat  ? 
Will  his  dwelling  be  a  mansion  in  a  mai'ble-fronted 

row, 
Or  a  homestead  by  a  hillside  where  the  huckleberries 

grow  ? 

I  can  see  our  one  survivor,  sitting  lonely  by  himself,  — 
All  his  college  text-books  round  him,  ranged  in  order 

on  their  shelf  ; 
There  are  classic  "interliners  "  filled  with  learning's 

choicest  pith, 
Each    cum   notis    variorum,   quas    reeensuit    doctus 

Smith ; 

Physics,  metaphysics,  logic,  mathematics  —  all   the 

lot  — 
Every  wisdom-crammed  octavo  he  has  mastered  and 

forgot, 


36 

With  the  ghosts  of  dead  Professors  standing  guard 

beside  them  all ; 
And  the  room  is  full  of  shadows  which  their  lettered 

backs  recall. 

How  the  past  spreads  out  in  vision  with  its  far  reced 
ing  train, 

Like  a  long  embroidered  arras  in  the  chambers  of  the 
brain, 

From  opening  manhood's  morning  when  first  we 
learned  to  grieve 

To  the  fond  regretful  moments  of  our  sorrow  sad 
dened  eve ! 

What   early  shadows   darkened   our  idle   summer's 

j°y 

When  death  snatched  roughly  from  us  that  lovely 

bright-eyed  boy  ! 1 
The  yeaus  move  swiftly  onwards ;  the  deadly  shafts 

fall  fast,  — 
Till  all  have  dropped   around   him  —  lo,    there   he 

stands,  —  the  last ! 

Their  faces  flit  before    him,   some    rosy-hued    and 

fair, 
Some  strong  in  iron  manhood,  some  worn  with  toil 

and  care,  — 

1  William  Sturgis. 
* 


„  •       THE  LAST  SURVIVOR  37 

Their  smiles  no  more  shall  greet  him  on  cheeks  with 

pleasure  flushed  ! 
The  friendly  hands  are  folded,  the  pleasant  voices 

hushed  ! 


My  picture  sets  me  dreaming  ;  alas  !  and  can  it  be 
Those  two  familiar  faces  we  never  more  may  see  ? 
In  every  entering  footfall  I  think  them  drawing  near, 
With  every  door  that  opens  I  say,  "  At  last  they  're 
here !  " 

The  willow  bends   unbroken   when  angry  tempests 

blow, 
The  stately  oak  is  levelled  and  all  its  strength  laid 

low; 
So  fell  that  tower  of  manhood,  undaunted,  patient, 

strong, 
White  with  the  gathering  snow-flakes,  who  faced  the 

storm  so  long.1 

And  he,2  —  what  subtle  phrases  their  varying  lights 

must  blend 
To  paint    as   ea'ch    remembers    our    many-featured 

friend  ! 

His  wit  a  flash  auroral  that  laughed  in  every  look, 
His  talk  a  sunbeam  broken  on  the  ripples  of  a  brook, 
1  Francis  B.  Crowninshield.  2  George  T.  Davis. 


38  THE  LAST   SURVIVOR. 

Or,  fed  from  thousand  sources,  a  fountain's  glittering 
jet, 

Or  careless  handfuls  scattered  of  diamond  sparks  un 
set, 

Ah,  sketch  him,  paint  him,  mould  him  in  every  shape 
you  will, 

He  was  himself —  the  only  —  the  one  unpictured 
still ! 

Farewell !  our  skies  are  darkened  and  yet  the  stars 

will  shine, 

We  '11  close  our  ranks  together  and  still  fall  into  line 
Till  one  is  left,  one  only,  to  mourn  for  all  the  rest ; 
And  Heaven  bequeath  their  memories  to  him  who 

loves  us  best ! 


THE   ARCHBISHOP   AND   GIL   BLAS.1 

A  MODERNIZED   VERSION. 

I  DON'T  think  I  feel  much  older ;    I  'm  aware  I  'm 

rather  gray, 

But  so  are  many  young  folks ;  I  meet  'em  every  day. 
I  confess  I  'm  more  particular   in  what  I  eat  and 

drink, 
But  one's  taste  improves  with  culture ;  that  is  all 

it  means,  I  think. 

Can  you  read  as  once  you  used  to  ?  Well,  the  print 
ing  is  so  bad, 

No  young  folks'  eyes  can  read  it  like  the  books  that 
once  we  had. 

Are  you  quite  as  quick  of  hearing  ?  Please  to  say 
that  once  again. 

Don't  I  use  plain  words,  your  Reverence  ?  Yes,  I 
often  use  a  cane, 

But  it 's  not  because  I  need  it,  —  no,  I  always  liked  a 

stick ; 
And  as  one  might  lean  upon  it,  't  is  as  well  it  should 

be  thick. 
1  Annual  Meeting  of  the  Class  of  1829,  January  6,  1879. 


40      THE  ARCHBISHOP  AND  GIL  BLAS. 

Oh,  I  'm  smart,  I  'm  spry,  I  'm  lively,  —  I  can  walk, 

yes,  that  I  can, 
On  the  days  I  feel  like  walking,  just  as  well  as  you, 

young  man ! 

Don't  you   get   a   little    sleepy   after   dinner    every 

day? 
Well,  I  doze  a  little,  sometimes,  but  that  always  was 

my  way. 
Don't  you  cry  a  little  easier  than  some  twenty  years 

ago  ? 
Well,  my  heart  is  very  tender,  but  I  think  't  was 

always  so. 

Don't  you  find  it  sometimes  happens  that  you  cant 
recall  a  name  ? 

Yes,  —  I  know  such  lots  of  people,  —  but  my  mem 
ory  's  not  to  blame. 

What !  You  think  my  memory  's  failing  !  Why, 
it  's  just  as  bright  and  clear,  — 

I  remember  my  great-grandma  !  She  's  been  dead 
these  sixty  year ! 

Is  your   voice   a  little  trembly  ?     Well,   it  may  be, 

now  and  then, 
But  I  write  as  well  as  ever  with  a  good  old-fashioned 

pen; 


THE   ARCHBISHOP  AND   GIL  BLAS.  41 

It  's  the  Gillotts  make  the  trouble,  —  not  at  all  my 

finger-ends,  — 
That  is  why  my  hand  looks  shaky  when  I  sign  for 

dividends. 

Don't  you  stoop  a  little,  walking  ?    It  's  a  way  I  Ve 

always  had  — 
I  have  always   been  round-shouldered  ever  since  I 

was  a  lad. 
Don't  you  hate  to  tie  your  shoe-strings  ?    Yes,  I  own 

it  —  that  is  true. 
Don't  you  tell  old  stories  over  ?     I  am  not  aware 

I  do. 

Don't  you  stay  at  home  of  evenings  ?     Don't  you  love 

a  cushioned  seat 
In   a  corner,   by  the  fireside,  with  your   dippers  on 

your  feet  ? 
Don't  you   wear  warm  fleecy  flannels?     Dont  you 

muffle  up  your  throat  ? 
Don't  you  like  to  have  one  help  you  when  you  're  put' 

ting  on  your  coat  ? 

Don't  you  like  old  books  you  've  dogs-eared,  you  can't 

remember  when  f 
Don't  you  call  it  late  at  nine  o'clock  and  go  to  bed  at 

ten? 


42  THE   ARCHBISHOP  AND   GIL  BLAS. 

How  many  cronies  can  you  count  of  all  you  used  to 

know 
Who  called  you  ly  your    Christian   name  some  fifty 

years  ago? 

How  look   the   prizes  to  you  that  used  to  fire  your 

brain  ? 
You  've  reared  your  mound  —  how  high  is  it  above  the 

level  plain  ? 
You  \e  drained  the  brimming  golden  cup  that  made 

your  fancy  reel, 
You  've  slept  the  giddy  potion  off,  —  now  tell  us  how 

you  feel! 

You  've  watched  the  harvest  ripening  till  every  stem 

was  cropped, 
You  've  seen  the  rose  of  beauty  fade  till  every  petal 

dropped, 
You  've  told  your  thought,  you  ''ve  done  your  task, 

you  've  tracked  your  dial  round, 
—  I  backing  down  !    Thank  Heaven,  not  yet !    I  'm 

hale  and  brisk  and  sound, 

And   good  for  many  a   tussle,  as  you  shall  live  to 

see  ; 
My   shoes   are   not   quite   ready  yet  —  don't    think 

you  're  rid  of  me  ! 


THE   ARCHBISHOP  AND   GIL  BLAS.  43 

Old  Parr  was  in  his  lusty  prime  when  he  was  older 

far, 
And  where  will  you  be  if  I  live  to  beat  old  Thomas 

Parr? 

Ah  well,  —  I  know,  —  at  every  age  life  has  a  certain 

charm,  — 
You  ''re  going  f    Come,  permit  me,  please,  I  beg  you  'II 

take  my  arm. 
I  take  your  arm  !     Why  take  your  arm  ?  I  'd  thank 

you  to  be  told ; 
I  'in  old  enough  to  walk  alone,  but  not  so  very  old ! 


THE   SHADOWS.1 

"  How  many  have  gone?  "  was  the  question  of  old 
Ere  time  our  bright  ring  of  its  jewels  bereft ; 

Alas  !  for  too  often  the  death-bell  has  tolled, 
And  the   question   we  ask  is,  *'  How   many  are 
left?" 

Bright   sparkled  the   wine  ;    there   were  fifty   that 

quaffed ; 

For  a  decade  had  slipped  and  had  taken  but  three ; 
How  they  frolicked  and  sung,  —  how  they  shouted 

and  laughed, 

Like  a  school  full  of  boys  from  their  benches  set 
free ! 

There  were  speeches  and  toasts,  there  were  stories 

and  rhymes, 
The  hall  shook  its  sides  with  their  merriment's 

noise  ; 
1  Annual  Meeting  of  the  Class  of  1829,  January  8,  1880. 


ANNUAL  MEETING  OF   THE   CLASS   OF   1829.       45 

As    they    talked    and    lived    over   the   college-day 

times,  — 

No  wonder  they  kept  their   old   name  of   "  The 
Boys ! " 

The  seasons  moved  on  in  their  rhythmical  flow 
With    mornings    like    maidens    that    pouted    or 

smiled, 
With  the  bud  and  the  leaf   and  the  fruit  and  the 

snow, 

And  the  year-books  of  Time  in  his  alcoves  were 
piled. 

There   were    forty   that  gathered  where   fifty  had 

met  ; 
Some  locks  had  got  silvered,  some  lives  had  grown 

sere, 

But  the  laugh  of  the  laughers  was  lusty  as  yet, 
And  the  song  of    the  singers  rose   ringing   and 
clear. 

Still  flitted  the  years  ;  there  were  thirty  that  came  ; 
"  The  Boys  "  they  were  still  and  they  answered 

their  call; 
There  were  foreheads  of  care,  but  the  smiles  were 

the  same 

And  the  chorus  rang  loud  through  the  garlanded 
hall. 


46  THE  SHADOWS. 

The  hour-hand  moved  on,  and  they  gathered  again ; 

There  were  twenty  that  joined  in  the  hymn  that 

was  sung, 
But  ah  !  for  our  song-bird  we  listened  in  vain, — 

The  crystalline  tones  like  a  seraph's  that  rung ! 

How  narrow  the  circle  that  holds  us  to-night  ! 

How  many  the  loved  ones  that  greet  us  no  more, 
As  we  meet  like  the  stragglers  that  come  from  the 

fight, 

Like   the   mariners   flung   from    a   wreck  on   the 
shore ! 

We  look   through   the   twilight   for  those  we  have 

lost ;  + 

The  stream  rolls  between  us  and  yet  they  seem 

near ; 

Already  outnumbered  by  those  who  have  crossed, 
Our  band  is  transplanted,  its  home  is  not  here  ! 

They  smile  on  us  still  —  is  it  only  a  dream  ?  — 

While  fondly  or  proudly  their  names  we  recall  — 
They  beckon  —  they  come  —  they  are  crossing  the 

stream  — 

Lo  !  the  Shadows  !  the  Shadows  !  room  —  room  for 
them  all ! 


THE  COMING  ERA. 

THEY  tell  us  that  the  Muse  is  soon  to  fly  hence, 
Leaving  the  bowers  of  song  that  were  once  dear, 

Her  robes  bequeathing  to  her  sister,  Science, 
The  groves  of  Pindus  for  the  axe  to  clear. 

Optics  will  claim  the  wandering  eye  of  fancy, 
Physics  will  grasp  imagination's  wings, 

Plain  fact  exorcise  fiction's  necromancy, 

The  workshop  hammer  where  the  minstrel  sings. 

No  more  with  laughter  at  Thalia's  frolics 

Our  eyes  shall  twinkle  till  the  tears  run  down, 

But  in  her  place  the  lecturer  on  hydraulics 
Spout  forth  his  watery  science  to  the  town. 

No  more  our  foolish  passions  and  affections 
The  tragic  Muse  with  mimic  grief  shall  try, 

But,  nobler  far,  a  course  of  vivisections 

Teach  what  it  costs  a  tortured  brute  to  die. 

The  unearthed  monad,  long  in  buried  rocks  hid, 
Shall  tell  the  secret  whence  our  being  came ; 


48  THE   COMING  EKA. 

The  chemist  show  us  death  is  life's  black  oxide, 
Left  when  the  breath  no  longer  fans  its  flame. 

Instead  of  cracked-brained  poets  in  their  attics 
Filling  thin  volumes  with  their  flowery  talk, 

There  shall  be  books  of  wholesome  mathematics  ; 
The  tutor  with  his  blackboard  and  his  chalk. 

No  longer  bards  with  madrigal  and  sonnet 

Shall  woo  to  moonlight  walks  the  ribboned  sex, 

But  side  by  side  the  beaver  and  the  bonnet 
Stroll,  calmly  pondering  on  some  problem's  x. 

The  sober  bliss  of  serious  calculation 

Shall  mock  the  trivial  joys  that  fancy  drew, 

And,  oh,  the  rapture  of  a  solved  equation,  — 
One  self-same  answer  on  the  lips  of  two  ! 

So  speak  in  solemn  tones  our  youthful  sages, 
Patient,  severe,  laborious,  slow,  exact, 

As  o'er  creation's  protoplasmic  pages 

They  browse  and  munch  the  thistle  crops  of  fact. 

And  yet  we  've  sometimes  found  it  rather  pleasant 
To    dream    again    the    scenes    that    Shakespeare 
drew,  — 

To  walk  the  hill-side  with  the  Scottish  peasant 
Among  the  daisies  wet  with  morning's  dew ; 


THE   COMING  ERA.  49 

To  leave  awhile  the  daylight  of  the  real, 
Led  by  the  guidance  of  the  master's  hand, 

For  the  strange  radiance  of  the  far  ideal,  — 
"  The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land." 

Well,  Time  alone  can  lift  the  future's  curtain,  — 
Science  may  teach  our  children  all  she  knows, 

But  love  will  kindle  fresh  young  hearts,  't  is  certain. 
And  June  will  not  forget  her  blushing  rose. 

And  so,  in  spite  of  all  that  Time  i's  bringing,  — 
Treasures  of  truth  and  miracles  of  art, 

Beauty  and  Love  will  keep  the  poet  singing, 
And  song  still  live,  —  the  science  of  the  heart. 


IN  RESPONSE.1 

SUCH  kindness  !  the  scowl  of  a  cynic  would  soften, 
His  pulse  beat  its  way  to  some  eloquent  word,  — 

Alas !  my  poor  accents  have  echoed  too  often, 

Like   that  Pinafore   music  you  've   some  of  you 
heard. 

Do  you  know  me,  dear  strangers  —  the  hundredth- 
time  comer 

At  banquets  and  feasts  since  the  days  of  my  Spring  ? 
Ah  !  would  I  could  borrow  one  rose  of  my  Summer, 

But  this  is  a  leaf  of  my  Autumn  I  bring. 

I  look  at  your  faces,  —  I  'm  sure  there  are  some  from 

The  three-breasted  mother  I  count  as  my  own  ; 
You  think  you  remember  the  place  you  have  come 

from, 

But   how  it  has   changed  in  the  years  that  have 
flown! 

Unaltered,  't  is  true,  is  the  hall  we  call  "  Funnel ;  " 
Still  fights  the  "  Old  South  "  in  the  battle  for  life, 
1  Breakfast  at  the  Century  Club,  New  York,  May,  1879. 


IN  RESPONSE.  51 

But  we  've  opened  our  door  to  the  West  through  the 

tunnel, 

And  we  've  cut  off  Fort   Hill  with   our  Amazon 
knife. 

You   should   see  the  new  Westminster  Boston  has 

builded, — 

Its  mansions,  its  spires,  its  museums  of  arts, — 
You  should  see  the  great  dome  we  have  gorgeously 

gilded,  — 
'T  is  the  light  of  our  eyes,  't  is  the  joy  of  our  hearts. 

When  first  in  his  path  a  young  asteroid  found  it, 
As  he  sailed  through  the  skies  with  the  stars  in  his 

wake, 
He  thought  't  was  the  sun,  and  kept  circling  around 

it 
Till  Edison  signalled,  "  You  've  made  a  mistake." 

We  are  proud  of  our  city  —  her  fast-growing  figure  — 
The  warp   and  the  woof   of   her   brain   and  her 

hands,  — 
But  we  're  proudest  of  all  that  her  heart  has  grown 

bigger, 
And  warms  with  fresh  blood  as  her  girdle  expands. 

One  lesson  the  rubric  of  conflict  has  taught  her  : 
Though    parted   awhile   by    war's    earth-rending 
shock, 


52  IN  KESPONSE. 

The  lines  that  divide  us  are  written  in  water, 
The  love  that  unites  us  cut  deep  in  the  rock. 

As  well  might  the  Judas  of  treason  endeavor 
To  write  his  black  name  on  the  disk  of  the  sun 

As  try  the  bright  star-wreath  that  binds  us  to  sever 
And  blot  the  fair  legend  of  "  Many  in  One." 

We  love  YOU,  tall  sister,  the  stately,  the  splendid,  — 
The  banner  of  empire  floats  high  on  your  towers, 

Yet  ever  in  welcome  your  arms  are  extended,  — 
We  share  in  your  splendors,  your  glory  is  ours. 

Yes,  Queen  of  the  Continent !    All  of  us  own  thee,  — 
The  gold-freighted  argosies  flock  at  thy  call,  — 

The  naiads,  the  sea-nymphs  have  met  to  enthrone 

thee, 
But  the  Broadway  of  one  is  the  Highway  of  all! 

—  I  thank  you.     Three  words   that   can  hardly  be 

mended, 

Though  phrases  on  phrases  their  eloquence  pile, 
If  you   hear  the   heart's  throb  with  their  syllables 

blended, 
And  read  all  they  mean  in  a  sunshiny  smile. 


FOR  THE  MOORE  CENTENNIAL  CELEBRA 
TION. 

MAY  28,  1879. 

I. 

ENCHANTER  of  Erin,  whose  magic  has  bound  us. 
Thy  wand  for  one  moment  we  fondly  would  claim, 

Entranced  while  it  summons  the  phantoms  around  us 
That  blush  into  life  at  the  sound  of  thy  name. 

The   tell-tales   of  memory  wake  from   their    slum 
bers,  — 

I  hear  the  old  song  with  its  tender  refrain,  — 
What  passion  lies  hid  in  those  honey-voiced  numbers  ! 

What  perfume  of  youth  in  each  exquisite  strain  ! 

The  home  of  my  childhood  comes  back  as  a  vision,  — 
Hark  !  Hark  !  A  soft  chord  from  its  song-haunted 
room,  — 

'T  is  a  morning  of  May,  when  the  air  is  Elysian,  — 
The  syringa  in  bud  and  the  lilac  in  bloom,  — 

We  are  clustered  around  the  "  dementi  "  piano,  — 
There  were  six  of  us  then,  —  there  are  two  of  us 
now, — 


54      MOORE  CENTENNIAL  CELEBRATION. 

She  is  singing,  —  the  girl  with  the  silver  soprano,  — 
How  "  The  Lord  of  the  Valley  "  was  false  to  his 
vow: 

"  Let  Erin  remember  "  the  echoes  are  calling : 

Through  "  The  Vale  of  Avoca  "  the  waters  are 

rolled : 

"  The  Exile  "  laments  while  the  night-dews  are  fall 
ing  : 
"  The  Morning  of  Life  "  dawns  again  as  of  old. 

But  ah !  those  warm  love-songs  of  fresh  adolescence  ! 

Around  us  such  raptures  celestial  they  flung 
That  it  seemed  as  if  Paradise  breathed  its  quintes 
sence 

Through  the  seraph-toned  lips  of  the  maiden  that 
sung ! 

Long  hushed  are  the  chords  that  my  boyhood  en 
chanted 
As  when  the  smooth    wave    by  the    angel  was 

stirred, 

Yet  still  with  their  music  is  memory  haunted 
And  oft  in  my  dreams  are  their  melodies  heard. 

I  feel  like  the  priest  to  his  altar  returning,  — 
The  crowd  that  was  kneeling  no  longer  is  there, 


MOORE  CENTENNIAL  CELEBRATION.      55 

The  flame  has  died  down,  but  the  brands  are  still 

burning, 
And  sandal  and  cinnamon  sweeten  the  air. 


H. 

The  veil  for  her  bridal  young  Summer  is  weaving 
In  her  azure- domed  hall  with  its  tapestried  floor, 

And  Spring  the  last  tear-drops  of  May-dew  is  leaving 
On    the    daisy   of    Burns    and  the   shamrock  of 
Moore.    -    . 

How  like,  how  unlike,  as  we  view  them  together, 
The  song  of  the  minstrels  whose  record  we  scan,  — 

One  fresh  as  the  breeze  blowing  over  the  heather,  — 
One  sweet  as  the  breath  from  an  odalisque's  fan ! 

Ah,  passion  can  glow  mid  a  palace's  splendor ; 

The  cage  does  not  alter  the  song  of  the  bird ; 
And  the  curtain  of  silk  has  known  whispers  as  tender 

As  ever  the  blossoming  hawthorn  has  heard. 

No  fear  lest  the  step  of  the  soft-slippered  Graces 
Should  fright  the  young  Loves  from  their  warm 

little  nest, 

For  the  heart  of  a  queen,  under  jewels  and  laces, 
Beats  time  with  the  pulse  in  the  peasant  girl's 
breast ! 


56      MOOEE  CENTENNIAL  CELEBRATION. 

Thrice  welcome  each  gift  of  kind  Nature's  bestow 
ing ! 

Her  fountain  heeds  little  the  goblet  we  hold ; 
Alike,  when  its  musical  waters  are  flowing, 

The  shell  from  the  seaside,  the  chalice  of  gold. 

The  twins  of  the  lyre  to  her  voices  had  listened ; 

Both  laid  their  best  gifts  upon  Liberty's  shrine  ; 
For  Coila's   loved  minstrel  the    holly-wreath   glist 
ened; 

For  Erin's  the  rose  and  the  myrtle  entwine. 

And  while  the  fresh  blossoms  of  summer  are  braided 
For  the  sea-girdled,  stream-silvered,  lake-jewelled 
isle, 

While  her  mantle  of  verdure  is  woven  unfaded, 
While  Shannon  and  Liffey  shall- dimple  and  smile, 

The   land    where    the    staff    of   Saint   Patrick  was 

planted, 
Where  the  shamrock  grows  green  from  the  cliffs 

to  the  shore, 

The  land  of  fair  maidens  and  heroes  undaunted, 
Shall  wreathe  her  bright  harp  with  the  garlands 
of  Moore  ! 


TO   JAMES   FREEMAN  CLARKE. 

APRIL  4,  1880. 

I  BRING  the  simplest  pledge  of  love, 

Friend  of  my  earlier  days ; 
Mine  is  the  hand  without  the  glove, 

The  heart-beat,  not  the  phrase. 

How  few  still  breathe  this  mortal  air 

We  called  by  schoolboy  names  ! 
You  still,  whatever  robe  you  wear, 

To  me  are  always  James. 

That  name  the  kind  apostle  bore 

Who  shames  the  sullen  creeds, 
Not  trusting  less,  but  loving  more, 

And  showing  faith  by  deeds. 

What  blending  thoughts  our  memories  share ! 

What  visions  yours  and  mine 
Of  May-days  in  whose  morning  air 

The  dews  were  golden  wine, 


58        TO  JAMES  FREEMAN  CLARKE. 

Of  vistas  bright  with  opening  day, 

Whose  all-awakening  sun 
Showed  in  life's  landscape,  far  away, 

The  summits  to  be  won ! 

The  heights  are  gained.  —  Ah,  say  not  so 

For  him  who  smiles  at  time, 
Leaves  his  tired  comrades  down  below, 

And  only  lives  to  climb  ! 

His  labors,  —  will  they  ever  cease,  — 
With  hand  and  tongue  and  pen  ? 

Shall  wearied  Nature  ask  release 
At  threescore  years  and  ten  ? 

Our  strength  the  clustered  seasons  tax,  — 
For  him  new  life  they  mean  ; 

Like  rods  around  the  lictor's  axe 
They  keep  him  bright  and  keen. 

The  wise,  the  brave,  the  strong,  we  know, 
We  mark  them  here  or  there, 

But  he,  —  we  roll  our  eyes,  and  lo  ! 
We  find  him  everywhere  ! 

With  truth's  bold  cohorts,  or  alone, 
He  strides  through  error's  field ; 

His  lance  is  ever  manhood's  own, 
His  breast  is  woman's  shield. 


TO  JAMES  FREEMAN  CLARKE.        59 

Count  not  his  years  while  earth  has  need 

Of  souls  that  Heaven  inflames 
With  sacred  zeal  to  save,  to  lead,  — 

Long  live  our  dear  Saint  James  ! 


WELCOME   TO    THE    CHICAGO    COMMER 
CIAL   CLUB. 

JANUARY  14,  1880. 

CHICAGO  sounds  rough  to  the  maker  of  verse  ; 
One  comfort  we  have  —  Cincinnati  sounds  worse ; 
If  we  only  were  licensed  to  say  Chicag6  ! 
But  Worcester  and  Webster  won't  let  us,  you  know. 

No  matter,  we  songsters  must  sing  as  we  can ; 
We  can  make  some  nice  couplets  with  Lake  Michi 
gan, 

And  what  more  resembles  a  nightingale's  voice, 
Than  the  oily  trisyllable,  sweet  Illinois  ? 

Your  waters  are  fresh,  while  our  harbor  is  salt, 

But  we  know  you  can't  help  it  —  it  is  n't  your  fault ; 

Our  city  is  old  and  your  city  is  new, 

But  the  railroad  men  tell  us  \ve  're  greener  than  you. 

You  have  seen  our  gilt  dome,  and  no  doubt  you  've 

been  told 
That  the  orbs  of  the  universe  round  it  are  rolled  ; 


WELCOME  TO  THE  CHICAGO  COMMERCIAL  CLUB.     61 

But  I  '11  own  it  to  you,  and  I  ought  to  know  best, 
That  this  is  n't  quite  true  of  all  stars  of  the  West. 

You  '11  go  to  Mount  Auburn  —  we  '11  show  you  the 

track,  — 
And  can   stay  there,  —  unless  you  prefer  to   come 

back; 

And  Bunker's  tall  shaft  you  can  climb  if  you  will, 
But  you  '11  puff  like  a  paragraph  praising  a  pill. 

You  must  see  —  but  you  have  seen  —  our  old  Fan- 

euil  Hall, 
Our   churches,  our  school-rooms,  our  sample-rooms, 

all; 

And,  perhaps,  though  the  idiots  must  have  their  jokes, 
You  have  found  our  good  people  much  like  other  folks. 

There  are  cities  by  rivers,  by  lakes  and  by  seas, 
Each  as  full  of  itself  as  a  cheese-mite  of  cheese  ; 
And  a  city  will  brag  as  a  game-cock  will  crow : 
Don't  your  cockerels  at  home  —  just   a  little,  you 
know? 

But  we  '11  crow  for  you  now  —  here  's  a  health  to  the 

boys, 

Men,  maidens,  and  matrons  of  fair  Illinois, 
And  the  rainbow  of  friendship  that  arches  its  span 
From  the  green  of  the  sea  to  the  blue  Michigan  ! 


AMERICAN  ACADEMY  CENTENNIAL  CEL 
EBRATION. 

MAY  26,  1880. 

SlRE,  son,  and  grandson  ;  so  the  century  glides  ; 

Three  lives,  three  strides,  three  footprints  in  the 

sand  ; 
Silent  as  midnight's  falling  meteor  slides 

Into  the  stillness  of  the  far-off  land ; 

How  dim  the  space  its  little  arc  has  spanned ! 

See  on  this  opening  page  the  names  renowned 
Tombed  in  these  records  on  our  dusty  shelves, 

Scarce  on  the  scroll  of  living  memory  found, 
Save  where  the  wan-eyed  antiquarian  delves  ; 
Shadows  they  seem  ;  ah,  what  are  we  ourselves  ? 

•  Pale  ghosts  of  Bowdoin,  Winthrop,  Willard,  West, 

Sages  of  busy  brain  and  wrinkled  brow, 
Searchers  of  Nature's  secrets  unconfessed, 

Asking  of  all  things  Whence  and  Why  and  How  — 
What  problems  meet  your  larger  vision  now  ? 


AMERICAN  ACADEMY  CENTENNIAL.  63 

Has  Gannett  tracked  the  wild  Aurora's  path  ? 
Has  Bowdoin  found  his  all-surrounding  sphere  ? 

What  question  puzzles  ciphering  Philomath  ? 
Could  Williams  make  the  hidden  causes  clear 
Of  the  Dark  Day  that  filled  the  land  with  fear  ? 

Dear  ancient  schoolboys  !     Nature  taught  to  them 
The  simple  lessons  of  the  star  and  flower, 

Showed  them  strange  sights ;  how  on  a  single  stem,  — 
Admire  the  marvels  of  Creative  Power !  — 
Twin  apples  grew,  one  sweet,  the  other  sour , 

How  from  the  hill-top  where  our  eyes  behold 
In  even  ranks  the  plumed  and  bannered  maize 

Range  its  long  columns,  in  the  days  of  old 
The  live  volcano  shot  its  angry  blaze,  — 
Dead  since  the  showers  of  Noah's  watery  days  ; 

How,  when  the  lightning  split  the  mighty  rock, 
The  spreading  fury  of  the  shaft  was  spent ; 

How  the  young  scion  joined  the  alien  stock, 

And  when  and  where  the  homeless  swallows  went 
To  pass  the  winter  of  their  discontent. 

Scant  were  the  gleanings  in  those  years  of  dearth ; 

No  Cuvier  yet  had  clothed  the  fossil  bones 
That  slumbered,  waiting  for  their  second  birth ; 

No  Lyell  read  the  legend  of  the  stones ; 

Science  still  pointed  to  her  empty  thrones. 


64  AMERICAN  ACADEMY  CENTENNIAL.     * 

Dreaming  of  orbs  to  eyes  of  earth  unknown, 

Herschel    looked   heavenwards    in    the    starlight 

pale; 

Lost  in  those  awful  depths  he  trod  alone, 
Laplace  stood  mute  before  the  lifted  veil ; 
While  home-bred  Humboldt  trimmed  his  toy  ship's 
sail. 

No  mortal  feet  these  loftier  heights  had  gained 
Whence  the  wide  realms  of  Nature  we  descry ; 

In  \ain  their  eyes  our  longing  fathers  strained 
To  scan  with  wondering  gaze  the  summits  high 
That  far  beneath  their  children's  footpaths  lie. 

Smile  at  their  first  small  ventures  as  we  may. 

The  school-boy's  copy  shapes  the  scholar's  hand, 
Their  grateful  memory  fills  our  hearts  to-day ; 

Brave,  hopeful,  wise,  this   bower  -of  peace  they 

planned, 

While  war's  dread  ploughshare  scarred  the  suffer 
ing  land. 

Child  of  our  children's  children  yet  unborn, 
When  on  this  yellow  page  you  turn  your  eyes, 

Where  the  brief  record  of  this  May-day  morn 
In  phrase  antique  and  faded  letters  lies, 
How  vague,  how  pale  our  flitting  ghosts  will  rise ! 


AMERICAN   ACADEMY  CENTENNIAL.  65 

Yet  in  our  veins  the  blood  ran  warm  and  red, 

For  us  the  fields  were  green,  the  skies  were  blue, 
Though  from  our  dust  the  spirit  long  has  fled, 

We  lived,  we  loved,  we  toiled,  we  dreamed  like 

you, 

Smiled    at  our  sires  and   thought   how  much  we 
knew. 

Oh  might  our  spirits  for  one  hour  return, 

When  the  next  century  rounds  its  hundredth  ring, 

All  the  strange  secrets  it  shall  teach  to  learn, 
To  hear  the  larger  truths  its  years  shall  bring, 
Its  wiser  sages  talk,  its  sweeter  minstrels  sing  ! 


THE   SCHOOL-BOY. 

BEAD    AT     THE     CENTENNIAL     CELEBRATION     OP     THE     FOUNDATION 
OF    PHILLIPS     ACADEMY,    ANDOTER. 

1778-1878. 

THESE  hallowed  precincts,  long  to  memory  dear, 
Smile  with  fresh  welcome  as  our  feet  draw  near  ; 
With  softer  gales  the  opening  leaves  are  fanned, 
With  fairer  hues  the  kindling  flowers  expand, 
The  rose-bush  reddens  with  the  blush  of  June, 
The  groves  are  vocal  with  their  minstrels'  tune, 
The  mighty  elm,  beneath  whose  arching  shade 
The  wandering  children  of  the  forest  strayed, 
Greets  the  bright  morning  in  its  bridal  dress, 
And  spreads  its  arms  the  gladsome  dawn  to  bless. 

Is  it  an  idle  dream  that  nature  shares 
Our  joys,  our  griefs,  our  pastimes,  and  our  cares  ? 
Is  there  no  summons  when,  at  morning's  call, 
The  sable  vestments  of  the  darkness  fall  ? 
Does  not  meek  evening's  low-voiced  Ave  blend 
With  the  soft  vesper  as  its  notes  ascend  ? 
Is  there  no  whisper  in  the  perfumed  air, 
When  the  sweet  bosom  of  the  rose  is  bare  ? 


THE   SCHOOL-BOY.  67 

Does  not  the  sunshine  call  us  to  rejoice  ? 
Is  there  no  meaning  in  the  storm-cloud's  voice  ? 
No  silent  message  when  from  midnight  skies 
Heaven  looks  upon  us  with  its  myriad  eyes  ? 

Or  shift  the  mirror ;  say  our  dreams  diffuse 
O'er  life's  pale  landscape  their  celestial  hues, 
Lend  heaven  the  rainbow  it  has  never  known, 
And  robe  the  earth  in  glories  not  its  own, 
Sing  their  own  music  in  the  summer  breeze, 
With  fresher  foliage  clothe  the  stately  trees, 
Stain  the  June  blossoms  with  a  livelier  dye 
And  spread  a  bluer  azure  on  the  sky,  — 
Blest  be  the  power  that  works  its  lawless  will 
And  finds  the  weediest  patch  an  Eden  still; 
No  walls  so  fair  as  those  our  fancies  build,  — 
No  views  so  bright  as  those  our  visions  gild ! 

So  ran  my  lines,  as  pen  and  paper  met, 
The  truant  goose-quill  travelling  like  Planchette ; 
Too  ready  servant,  whose  deceitful  ways 
Full  many  a  slipshod  line,  alas  !  betrays ; 
Hence  of  the  rhyming  thousand  not  a  few 
Have  builded  worse  —  a  great  deal  —  than  they  knew. 

What  need  of  idle  fancy  to  adorn 
Our  mother's  birthplace  on  her  birthday  morn  ? 
Hers  are  the  blossoms  of  eternal  spring, 
From  these  green  boughs  her  new-fledged  birds  take 
wing, 


68  THE   SCHOOL-BOY. 

These  echoes  hear  their  earliest  carols  sung, 

In  this  old  nest  the  brood  is  ever  young. 

If  some  tired  wanderer,  resting  from  his  flight, 

Amid  the  gay  young  choristers  alight, 

These  gather  round  him,  mark  his  faded  plumes 

That  faintly  still  the  far-off  grove  perfumes, 

And  listen,  wondering  if  some  feeble  note 

Yet  lingers,  quavering  in  his  weary  throat :  — 

I,  whose  fresh  voice  yon  red-faced  temple  knew, 

What  tune  is  left  me,  fit  to  sing  to  you? 

Ask  not  the  grandeurs  of  a  labored  song, 

But  let  my  easy  couplets  slide  along ; 

Much  could  I  tell  you  that  you  know  too  well ; 

Much  I  remember,  but  I  will  not  tell ; 

Age  brings  experience  ;  graybeards  oft  are  wise, 

But  oh  !  how  sharp  a  youngster's  ears  and  eyes  ! 

My  cheek  was  bare  of  adolescent  down 
When  first  I  sought  the  academic  town  ; 
Slow  rolls  the  coach  along  the  dusty  road, 
Big  with  its  filial  and  parental  load  ; 
The  frequent  hills,  the  lonely  woods  are  past, 
The  school-boy's  chosen  home  is  reached  at  last. 
I  see  it  now,  the  same  unchanging  spot, 
The  swinging  gate,  the  little  garden  plot, 
The  narrow  yard,  the  rock  that  made  its  floor, 
The  flat,  pale  house,  the  knocker-garnished  door, 
The  small,  trim  parlor,  neat,  decorous,  chill, 
The  strange,  new  faces,  kind,  but  grave  and  still ; 


THE   SCHOOL-BOY.  69 

Two,  creased  with  age,  — or  what  I  then  called  age,  — 

Life's  volume  open  at  its  fiftieth  page  ; 

One,  a  shy  maiden's,  pallid,  placid,  sweet 

As  the  first  snow-drop  which  the  sunbeams  greet ; 

One  the  last  nursling's  ;  slight  she  was,  and  fair, 

Her   smooth   white  forehead  warmed  with  auburn 

hair ; 

Last  came  the  virgin  Hymen  long  had  spared, 
Whose  daily  cares  the  grateful  household  shared, 
Strong,  patient,  humble ;  her  substantial  frame 
Stretched  the  chaste  draperies  I  forbear  to  name. 

Brave,  but  with  effort,  had  the  school-boy  come 
To  the  cold  comfort  of  a  stranger's  home ; 
How  like  a  dagger  to  my  sinking  heart 
Came  the  dry  summons,  "  It  is  time  to  part ; 
"  Good  -  by  !  "     "  Goo  —  ood  -  by  !  "  one  fond  mater 
nal  kiss 

Homesick  as  death  !    Was  ever  pang  like  this  ?  .  .  .  . 
Too  young  as  yet  with  willing  feet  to  stray 
From  the  tame  fireside,  glad  to  get  away,  — 
Too  old  to  let  my  watery  grief  appear,  — 
And  what  so  bitter  as  a  swallowed  tear  ! 

One  figure  still  my  vagrant  thoughts  pursue  ; 
First  boy  to  greet  me,  Ariel,  where  are  you  ? 
Imp  of  all  mischief,  heaven  alone  knows  how 
You  learned  it  all,  —  are  you  an  angel  now, 
Or  tottering  gently  down  the  slope  of  years, 
Your  face  grown  sober  in  the  vale  of  tears  ? 


70  THE   SCHOOL-BOY. 

Forgive  my  freedom  if  you  are  breathing  still ; 
If  in  a  happier  world,  I  know  you  will. 
You  were  a  school-boy — what  beneath  the  sun 
So  like  a  monkey  ?     I  was  also  one. 

Strange,  sure  enough,  to  see  what  curious  shoots 
The  nursery  raises  from  the  study's  roots ! 
In  those  old  days  the  very,  very  good 
Took  up  more  room  —  a  little  —  than  they  should  ; 
Something  too  much  one's  eyes  encountered  then 
Of  serious  youth  and  funeral-visaged  men  ; 
The  solemn  elders  saw  life's  mournful  half,  — 
Heaven  sent  this  boy,  whose  mission  was  to  laugh, 
Drollest  of  buffos,  Nature's  odd  protest, 
A  catbird  squealing  in  a  blackbird's  nest. 

Kind,    faithful     Nature !     While    the     sour-eyed 

Scot,  — 

Her  cheerful  smiles  forbidden  or  forgot,  — 
Talks  only  of  his  preacher  and  his  kirk,  — 
Hears  five-hour  sermons  for  his  Sunday  work,  — 
Praying  and  fasting  till  his  meagre  face 
Gains  its  due  length,  the  genuine  sign  of  grace,  — 
An  Ayrshire  mother  in  the  land  of  Knox 
Her  embryo  poet  in  his  cradle  rocks  ;  — 
Nature,  long  shivering  in  her  dim  eclipse, 
Steals  in  a  sunbeam  to  those  baby  lips  ; 
So  to  its  home  her  banished  smile  returns, 
And  Scotland  sweetens  with  the  sonjr  of  Burns  ! 


THE   SCHOOL-BOY.  71 

The  morning  came;  I  reached  the  classic  hall; 
A  clock-face  eyed  me,  staring  from  the  wall ; 
Beneath  its  hands  a  printed  line  I  read : 
YOUTH  is  LIFE'S  SEED-TIME:  so  the  clock-face  said: 
Some  took  its  council,  as  the  sequel  showed,  — 
Sowed,  —  their  wild  oats,  —  and  reaped  as  they  had 
sowed. 

How  all  comes  back  !  the  upward  slanting  floor,  — 
The  masters'  thrones  that  flank  the  central  door,  — 
The  long,  outstretching  alleys  that  divide 
The  rows  of  desks  that  stand  on  either  side,  — 
The  staring  boys,  a  face  to  every  desk, 
Bright,  dull,  pale,  blooming,  common,  picturesque. 

Grave  is  the  Master's  look ;  his  forehead  wears 
Thick  rows  of  wrinkles,  prints  of  worrying  cares  ; 
Uneasy  lie  the  heads  of  all  that  rule, 
His  most  of  all  whose  kingdom  is  a  school. 
Supreme  he  sits ;  before  the  awful  frown 
That  bends  his  brows  the  boldest  eye  goes  down ; 
Not  more  submissive  Israel  heard  and  saw 
At  Sinai's  foot  the  Giver  of  the  Law. 

Less  stern  he  seems,  who  sits  in  equal  state 
On  the  twin  throne  and  shares  the  empire's  weight ; 
Around  his  lips  the  subtle  life  that  plays 
Steals  quaintly  forth  in  many  a  jesting  phrase ; 
A  lightsome  nature,  not  so  hard  to  chafe, 
Pleasant  when  pleased  ;  rough-handled,  not  so  safe  ; 
Some  tingling  memories  vaguely  I  recall, 
But  to  forgive  him.     God  forgive  us  all ! 


72  THE  SCHOOL-BOY. 

One  yet  remains,  whose  well-remembered  name 
Pleads  in  my  grateful  heart  its  tender  claim ; 
His  was  the  charm  magnetic,  the  bright  look 
That  sheds  its  sunshine  on  the  dreariest  book  ; 
A  loving  soul  to  every  task  he  brought 
That  sweetly  mingled  with  the  lore  he  taught ; 
Sprung  from  a  saintly  race  that  never  could 
From  youth  to  age  be  anything  but  good, 
His  few  brief  years  in  holiest  labors  spent. 
Earth  lost  too  soon  the  treasure  heaven  had  lent. 
Kindest  of  teachers,  studious  to  divine 
Some  hint  of  promise  in  my  earliest  line, 
These  "faint  and  faltering  words  thou  can'st  not  hear 
Throb  from  a  heart  that  holds  thy  memory  dear. 

As  to  the  traveller's  eye  the  varied  plain 
Shows  through  the  window  of  the  flying  train, 
A  mingled  landscape,  rather  felt  than  seen, 
A  gravelly  bank,  a  sudden  flash  of  green, 
A  tangled  wood,  a  glittering  stream  that  flows 
Through  the  cleft  summit  where  the  cliff  once  rose, 
All  strangely  blended  in  a  hurried  gleam, 
Rock,    wood,   waste,    meadow,   village,    hill-side, 

stream,  — 

So,  as  we  look  behind  ns,  life  appears, 
Seen  through  the  vista  of  our  bygone  years. 

Yet  in  the  dead  past's  shadow-filled  domain, 
Some  vanished  shapes  the  hues  of  life  retain  ; 
Unbidden,  oft,  before  our  dreaming  eyes 
From  the  vague  mists  in  memory's  path  they  rise. 


THE   SCHOOL-BOY.  73 

So  comes  his  blooming  image  to  my  view, 

The  friend  of  joyous  days  when  life  was  new, 

Hope  yet  untamed,  the  blood  of  youth  unchilled, 

No  blank  arrear  of  promise  unfulfilled, 

Life's  flower  yet  hidden  in  its  sheltering  fold, 

Its  pictured  canvas  yet  to  be  unrolled. 

His  the  frank  smile  I  vainly  look  to  greet, 

His    the   warm   grasp    my   clasping    hand    should 

meet ; 

How  would  our  lips  renew  their  schoolboy  talk, 
Our  feet  retrace  the  old  familiar  walk  ! 
For  thee  no  more  earth's  cheerful  morning  shines 
Through  the  green  fringes  of  the  tented  pines ; 
Ah  me  !  is  heaven  so  far  thou  canst  not  hear, 
Or  is  thy  viewless  spirit  hovering  near, 
A  fair  young  presence,  bright  with  morning's  glow, 
The  fresh-cheeked  boy  of  fifty  years  ago  ? 

Yes,  fifty  years,  with  all  their  circling  suns, 
Behind  them  all  my  glance  reverted  runs  ; 
Where  now  that  time  remote,  its  griefs,  its  joys, 
Where   are   its   gray-haired   men,    its    bright-haired 

boys  ? 

Where  is  the  patriarch  time  could  hardly  tire,  — 
The  good  old,  wrinkled,  immemorial  "  squire  "  ? 
(An  honest  treasurer,  like  a  black-plumed  swan, 
Not  every  day  our  eyes  may  look  upon.) 
Where  the  tough  champion  who,  with  Calvin's  sword, 
In  wordy  conflicts  battled  for  the  Lord  ? 


74  THE  SCHOOL-BOY. 

Where  the  grave  scholar,  lonely,  calm,  austere, 
Whose  voice  like  music  charmed  the  listening  ear, 
Whose  light  rekindled,  like  the  morning-star 
Still  shines  upon  us  through  the  gates  ajar  ? 
Where  the  still,  solemn,  weary,  sad-eyed  man, 
Whose   care-worn  face   my  wandering   eyes   would 

scan,  — 

His  features  wasted  in  the  lingering  strife 
With  the  pale  foe  that  drains  the  student's  life  ? 
Where  my  old  friend,  the  scholar,  teacher,  saint, 
Whose  creed,  some  hinted,  showed  a  speck  of  taint ; 
He  broached  his  own  opinion,  which  is  not 
Lightly  to  be  forgiven  or  forgot ; 
Some  riddle's  point,  —  I  scarce  remember  now,  — 
Homoz,  perhaps,  where  they  said  homo  —  ou. 
(If  the  unlettered  greatly  wish  to  know 
Where  lies  the  difference  betwixt  oi  and  o, 
Those  of  the  curious  who  have  time  may  search 
Among  the  stale  conundrums  of  their  church.) 
Beneath  his  roof  his  peaceful  life  I  shared, 
And  for  his  modes  of  faith  I  little  cared,  — 
I,  taught  to  judge  men's  dogmas  by  their  deeds, 
Long  ere  the  days  of  india-rubber  creeds. 

Why  should  we  look  one  common  faith  to  find, 
Where  one  in  every  score  is  color-blind  ? 
If  here  on  earth  they  know  not  red  from  green, 
Will  they  see  better  into  things  unseen ! 


THE   SCHOOL-BOY.  75 

Once  more  to  time's  old  graveyard  I  return 
And  scrape  the  moss  from  memory's  pictured  urn. 
Who,  in  these  days  when  all  things  go  by  steam 
Recalls  the  stage-coach  with  its  four-horse  team  ? 
Its  sturdy  driver,  —  who  remembers  him  ? 
Or  the  old  landlord,  saturnine  and  grim, 
Who  left  our  hill-top  for  a  new  abode 
And  reared  his  sign-post  farther  down  the  road  ? 
Still  in  the  waters  of  the  dark  Shawshine 
Do  the  young  bathers  splash  and  think  they're  clean  ? 
Do  pilgrims  find  their  way  to  Indian  Ridge, 
Or  journey  onward  to  the  far-off  bridge, 
And  bring  to  younger  ears  the  story  back 
Of  the  broad  stream,  the  mighty  Merrimac  ? 
Are  there  still  truant  feet  that  stray  beyond 
These  circling  bounds  to  Pomp's  or  Haggett's  Pond, 
Or  where  the  legendary  name  recalls 
The  forest's  earlier  tenant,  —  "  Deer-jump  Falls  "? 

Yes,  every  nook  these  youthful  feet  explore, 
Just  as  our  sires  and  grandsires  did  of  yore ; 
So  all  life's  opening  paths,  where  nature  led 
Their  father's  feet,  the  children's  children  tread. 
Roll  the  round  century's  five  score  years  away, 
Call  from  our  storied  past  that  earliest  day 
When  great  Eliphalet  (I  can  see  him  now,  — 
Big  name,  big  frame,  big  voice,  and  beetling  brow), 
Then  young  Eliphalet,  —  ruled  the  rows  of  boys 
In  homespun  gray  or  old-world  corduroys,  — 


76  THE   SCHOOL-BOY. 

And  save  for  fashion's  whims,  the  benches  show 
The  self-same  youths,  the  very  boys  we  know. 
Time  works  strange  marvels :  since  I  trod  the  green 
And  swung  the  gates,  what  wonders  I  have  seen  ! 
But  come  what  will,  —  the  sky  itself  may  fall  — 
As  things  of  course  the  boy  accepts  them  all. 
The  prophet's  chariot,  drawn  by  steeds  of  flame, 
For  daily  use  our  travelling  millions  claim ; 
The  face  we  love  a  sunbeam  makes  our  own ; 
No  more  the  surgeon  hears  the  sufferer's  groan ; 
What  unwrit  histories  wrapped  in  darkness  lay 
Till  shovelling  Schliemann  bared  them  to  the  day ! 
Your  Richelieu  says,  and  says  it  well,  my  lord, 
The  pen  is  (sometimes)  mightier  than  the  sword; 
Great  is  the  goosequill,  say  we  all ;  Amen  ! 
Sometimes  the  spade  is  mightier  than  the  pen  ; 
It  shows  where  Babel's  terraced  walls  were  raised, 
The  slabs  that  cracked  when  Nimrod's  palace  blazed. 
Unearths  Mycenae,  rediscovers  Troy,  — 
Calmly  he  listens,  that  immortal  boy. 
A  new  Prometheus  tips  our  wands  with  fire, 
A  mightier  Orpheus  strains  the  whispering  wire, 
Whose  lightning  thrills  the  lazy  winds  outrun 
And  hold  the  hours  as  Joshua  stayed  the  sun,  — 
So  swift,  in  truth,  we  hardly  find  a  place 
For  those  dim  fictions  known  as  time  and  space. 
Still  a  new  miracle  each  year  supplies,  — 
See  at  his  work  the  chemist  of  the  skies, 


THE   SCHOOL-BOY.  77 

Who  questions  Sirius  in  his  tortured  rays 
And  steals  the  secret  of  the  solar  blaze  ; 
Hush  !  while  the  window-rattling  bugles  play 
The  nation's  airs  a  hundred  miles  away  ! 
That  wicked  phonograph !  hark  !  how  it  swears  ! 
Turn  it  again  and  make  it  say  its  prayers  ! 
And  was  it  true,  then,  what  the  story  said 
Of  Oxford's  friar  and  his  brazen  head  ? 
While  wandering  Science  stands,  herself  perplexed 
At  each  day's  miracle,  and  asks  "  What  next  ?  " 
The  immortal  boy,  the  coming  heir  of  all, 
Springs  from  his  desk  to  "  urge  the  flying  ball," 
Cleaves  with  his  bending  oar  the  glassy  waves, 
With  sinewy  arm  the  dashing  current  braves, 
The  same  bright  creature  in  these  haunts  of  ours 
That  Eton  shadowed  with  her  "  antique  towers." 

Boy !    Where  is  he  ?   the   long-limbed   youth  in 
quires, 

Whom  his  rough  chin  with  manly  pride  inspires ; 
Ah,  when  the  ruddy  cheek  no  longer  glows, 
When  the  bright  hair  is  white  as  winter  snows, 
When  the  dim  eye  has  lost  its  lambent  flame, 
Sweet  to  his  ear  will  be  his  school-boy  name! 
Nor  think  the  difference  mighty  as  it  seems 
Between  life's  morning  and  its  evening  dreams  ; 
Fourscore,  like  twenty,  has  its  tasks  and  toys  ; 
In  earth's  wide  school-house  all  are  girls  and  boys. 


78  THE   SCHOOL-BOY. 

Brothers,  forgive  my  wayward  fancy.     Who 
Can  guess  beforehand  what  his  pen  will  do  ? 
Too  light  my  strain  for  listeners  such  as  these, 
Whom   graver   thoughts    and   soberer   speech    shall 

please. 

Is  he  not  here  whose  breath  of  holy  song 
Has  raised  the  downcast  eyes  of  faith  so  long  ? 
Are  they  not  here,  the  strangers  in  your  gates, 
For  whom  the  wearied  ear  impatient  waits,  — 
The    large-brained    scholars   whom    their   toils   re 
lease,  — 
The  bannered  heralds  of  the  Prince  of  Peace  ? 

Such  was  the  gentle  friend  whose  youth  unblamed 
In  years  long  past  our  student-benches  claimed; 
Whose  name,  illumined  on  the  sacred  page, 
Lives  in  the  labors  of  his  riper  age ; 
Such  he  whose  record  time's  destroying  march 
Leaves  uneffaced  on  Zion's  springing  arch  : 
Not  to  the  scanty  phrase  of  measured  song, 
Cramped  in  its  fetters,  names  like  these  belong ; 
One  ray  they  lend  to  gild  my  slender  line  — 
Their  praise  I  leave  to  sweeter  lips  than  mine. 

Home  of  our  sires,  where  learning's  temple  rose, 
While  yet  they  struggled  with  their  banded  foes, 
As  in  the  West  thy  century's  sun  descends, 
One  parting  gleam  its  dying  radiance  lends. 


THE   SCHOOL-BOY.  79 

Darker  and  deeper  though  the  shadows  fall 
From  the  gray  towers  on  Doubting  Castle's  wall, 
Though  Pope  and  Pagan  re-array  their  hosts, 
And  her  new  armor  youthful  Science  boasts, 
Truth,  for  whose  altar  rose  this  holy  shrine, 
Shall  fly  for  refuge  to  these  bowers  of  thine ; 
No  past  shall  chain  her  with  its  rusted  vow, 
No  Jew's  phylactery  bind  her  Christian  brow, 
But  Faith  shall  smile  to  find  her  sister  free, 
And  nobler  manhood  draw  its  life  from  thee. 

Long  as  the  arching  skies  above  thee  spread, 
As  on  thy  groves  the  dews  of  heaven  are  shed, 
With  currents  widening  still  from  year  to  year, 
And  deepening  channels,  calm,  untroubled,  clear, 
Flow  the  twin  streamlets  from  thy  sacred  hill  — 
Pieria's  fount  and  Siloam's  shaded  rill ! 


THE   SILENT    MELODY. 

"  BEING  me  my  broken  harp,"  lie  said  ; 
"  We  both  are  wrecks,  — but  as  ye  will,  — 
Though  all  its  ringing  tones  have  fled, 

Their  echoes  linger  round  it  still ; 
It  had  some  golden  strings,  I  know, 
But  that  was  long,  —  how  long  !  —  ago. 

"  I  cannot  see  its  tarnished  gold, 

I  cannot  hear  its  vanished  tone, 
Scarce  can  my  trembling  fingers  hold 

The  pillared  frame  so  long  their  own  ; 
We  both  are  wrecks,  —  a  while  ago 
It  had  some  silver  strings,  I  know, 

"  But  on  them  Time  too  long  has  played 

The  solemn  strain  that  knows  no  change, 

And  where  of  old  my  fingers  strayed 

The  chords  they  find  are  new  and  strange, 

Yes  !  iron  strings,  —  I  know,  —  I  know,  — 

We  both  are  wrecks  of  long  ago. 


THE   SILENT  MELODY.  81 

"  We  both  are  wrecks,  —  a  shattered  pair,  — 

Strange  to  ourselves  in  time's  disguise  .... 

What  say  ye  to  the  lovesick  air 

That  brought  the  tears  from  Marian's  eyes  ? 

Ay  !  trust  me,  —  under  breasts  of  snow 

Hearts  could  be  melted  long  ago  ! 

"  Or  will  ye  hear  the  storm-song's  crash 

That  from  his  dreams  the  soldier  woke, 
And  bade  him  face  the  lightning  flash 

When  battle's  cloud  in  thunder  broke  ?  .   .  .  . 
Wrecks,  —  nought   but  wrecks  !  —  the   time  was 

when 
We  two  were  worth  a  thousand  men !  " 

And  so  the  broken  harp  they  bring 

With  pitying  smiles  that  none  could  blame  ; 

Alas  !  there  's  not  a  single  string 

Of  all  that  filled  the  tarnished  frame  ! 

But  see  !  like  children  overjoyed, 

His  fingers  rambling  through  the  void ! 

"  I  clasp  thee  !  Ay  ....  mine  ancient  lyre  .  .  ,  . 

Nay,  guide  my  wandering  fingers There ! 

They  love  to  dally  with  the  wire 

As  Isaac  played  with  Esau's  hair 

Hush  !  ye  shall  hear  the  famous  tune 
That  Marian  called  the  The  Breath  of  June  ! " 
6 


82  THE   SILENT  MELODY. 

And  so  they  softly  gather  round  : 

Rapt  in  his  tuneful  trance  he  seems  : 
His  fingers  move :  but  not  a  sound  ! 

A  silence  like  the  song  of  dreams 

"  There  !  ye  have  heard  the  air,"  he  cries, 

"  That  brought  the  tears  from  Marian's  eyes  !  " 

Ah,  smile  not  at  his  fond  conceit, 

Nor  deem  his  fancy  wrought  in  vain  ; 

To  him  the  unreal  sounds  are  sweet,  — 
No  discord  mars  the  silent  strain 

Scored  on  life's  latest,  starlit  page  — 

The  voiceless  melody  of  age. 

Sweet  are  the  lips  of  all  that  sing, 
When  Nature's  music  breathes  unsought, 

But  never  yet  could  voice  or  string 
So  truly  shape  our  tenderest  thought 

As  when  by  life's  decaying  fire 

Our  fingers  sweep  the  stringless  lyre  ! 


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